


Don't Hang Up Yet, I'm Not Done

by SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Lemon Demon, M/M, Pacific Rim AU, enemies to lovers forest fire, newmann - Freeform, tapping into the cultural zeitgeist of the world ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 16:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20915015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse/pseuds/SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse
Summary: “With all due respect, sir,” said Hermann, “I fail entirely to see any humor whatsoever in this situation.”“Yes,” said Pentecost. “It adds to the effect.”The world is ending, Hermann Gottlieb is a radio show host, and Newton Geiszler is absolutely convinced it all has something to do with aliens.Basically, it's a Pacific Rim Lemon Demon au based on Touch-Tone Telephone what more can you possibly want from me.





	Don't Hang Up Yet, I'm Not Done

**Author's Note:**

> According to genius.com this song is about a paranormal enthusiast contacting a radio host. So if you’re both guys, who’s the paranormal enthusiast and who’s the radio host?
> 
> Everything about radio stations in this fic is based upon either me having a shitty college radio show or what I remember from Frasier. 
> 
> Also shoutout to buckgaybarnes for the headcanon (do we still call them that?) of Newt having a Nice photo of himself online because god damn it we WILL make this horny.

Hermann was well aware that cigarettes were banned from the studio, which was why he deliberately flashed a few sticks of nicotine gum to Station Manager Pentecost before he stepped into the booth, shut the door behind him, and pulled out his pack. The sound of chewing would be death on air, and besides, strict adherence to the rule seemed a bit pointless of late. In all likelihood, the station headquarters and everything around them would be swept into the sea before the stink of smoke had a chance to sink into the worn-out furniture.

Hermann did his best to avoid setting an electrical fire as he adjusted the microphone to his height while lighting the cigarette clenched between his teeth; both actions felt equally urgent at the moment. He was always nervous in the minutes before he went live, in spite of his pages of meticulous notes and list of pre-screened callers and their probable questions and their  _ less  _ probable but occasionally still possible questions. Raleigh Beckett, the presenter on after him, would laugh when he saw Hermann walking out of the booth with his stacks of paper under his free arm. “You know you’re talking to people, right?” he’d ask. “They’re not computer programs, doc. You can’t predict exactly what they’re going to say.”

“And yet you unfailingly say the same thing every time I see you,” Hermann would reply, and that was the end of that.

Now he tapped a finger gently against the plush surface of the microphone, enjoying the crisp reverberation of the sound through the close air of the booth. “Testing,” he said quietly, as he could never be sure that Chuck Hansen hadn’t pushed up all the dials on the soundboard just make everyone’s lives incrementally worse before he left. “This is Dr. Hermann Gottlieb.”

“We gotcha loud and clear, Dr. Gottlieb,” said Tendo Choi over the speaker. “Hey, you hear about that monster wave out by California?”

“I expect today’s program would be rather lackluster if I hadn’t,” said Hermann. “Do we have a message from our sponsor?”

“Nope,” said Choi. “Word is he’s fled to central Europe with his family. As far away from the coasts as he can get.”

“A wise decision in the short term,” said Hermann. “Tell me when we’re live.”

“In five, four, three, two…”

“Welcome to Cancelling the Apocalypse with Doctor Hermann Gottlieb on PPDC88.5. I’m your host, Doctor Hermann Gottlieb, and today we’ll be discussing the latest in a series of unprecedentedly large tsunamis, this one off of America’s Gold Coast.” Hermann felt the usual rush of gratitude as his carefully practiced radio voice took control of his speech, flattening out his pitchy, nervous intonations and smoothing the cracks in his crumbling facade of calm. He practiced for fifteen minutes each day to sound like the pillar of strength he was supposed to be, and yet was always pleasantly surprised when he managed to pull it off. Of course, he’d only had to keep it up for a couple of months so far.

“As I’m sure you’re all well aware,” he continued, “these tsunamis, initially considered freak occurrences, have only grown greater in frequency and severity since they began.” He’d seen the videos, they all had: coastal cities disappearing into the sea, entire chunks of shoreline melting like wet paper. Hermann had begun going to synagogue for the first time since he’d left home. “Today we will be discussing, not the effects of this disaster, but the natural forces that may be causing it. Our first theory today comes from a listener in Tokyo, Japan. Miss Mori, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance…”

The first half-hour of the program went about as Hermann preferred it to, allowing him to sink into the soothing monotony of routine. The callers phoned in with theories about global warming or the shifting of tectonic plates, speaking quickly in their eagerness to hear Hermann’s professional opinion, and Hermann advised them, corrected them, soothed their fears. (Hermann’s professional opinion in fact concerned theoretical physics more than weather-related phenomena, but he was the only PhD that the station had been able to find who wasn’t in the process of fleeing Hong Kong.) Although Hermann enjoyed the discussions, today he found himself extraordinarily impatient to get to the last caller.

The man’s name was Dr. Newton Geiszler, and at first Hermann had only been excited to talk to another scientist. Then there was Dr. Geiszler’s rather elegant theory, which concerned predicting the arrival of the tsunamis by observing the migration patterns of birds. Only a biologist would’ve come up with something as hopelessly romantic, of course, but it held great potential and a good deal less existential terror than Hermann typically had to put up with. Finally there had been Dr. Geiszlers’s picture, which Hermann had found as he’d been researching the man’s work, and — Well. Radio was a nonvisual medium, he knew, and one that allowed for great distances, but if Hermann wasn’t such a bloody useless optimist he would’ve gone back to Berlin already.

Hermann took a minute to light himself a fresh cigarette as Choi put Dr. Geiszler through on the line, hoping that doing something with his hands would distract him from the speed at which his heart was beating. Geiszler, apparently a respected individual in the scientific community, would no doubt be disturbed if he became aware of Hermann’s highly unusual — and fleeting, he was sure — infatuation towards him. Hermann would need to remain calm. “Our last caller of the day,” he said as he upended his carton, dropped his lighter, and burned the tip of his thumb, “is Dr. Newton Geiszler, who has requested that his current location remain undisclosed. Dr. Geiszler—”

“I appreciate that,” said Geiszler. His voice was high, not unpleasantly so, and its cadence reminded Hermann a bit of a runaway freight train. “You have some good people working here, Dr. Gottlieb.”

“Ah, thank you,” said Hermann. He cleared his throat. “Dr. Geiszler, I understand you’re calling with a theory about the migratory patterns of—”

“I’m not going to talk about that,” said Geiszler. “That was kind of a — a whadjamacallit — a Trojan horse.”

Hermann blinked at the microphone. “I’m afraid we don’t really allow—”

“The truth?”

“Well of course we allow the  _ truth—” _

“Then what’s the problem?”

Hermann leaned back from the microphone so he could sigh. “Go ahead, Dr. Geiszler.”

“I believe—” began Geiszler. “No, no, belief suggests doubt. I am completely certain about this.”

“About  _ what?” _

“Well hang on, hang on, let me give you some background. Um, have you ever seen  _ Godzilla?  _ I mean, the shitty 2014 remake.”

The number of times that Hermann had seen  _ Godzilla  _ and its many sequels, spin-offs, and remakes was, frankly, embarrassing. “No. Please enlighten me.”

“So it’s a big fuckin’ — can I say fuckin’ on the radio? — big fuckin’ monster that comes out of the ocean, right?”

“From what I understand, yes.” Hermann decided that when he got home that night he would have a glass from the bottle of scotch he’d put up in his cabinet. He’d been saving it for the end of the world, but this seemed close enough. “And you believe— I’m sorry, you are  _ certain  _ that Godzilla is somehow causing these tsunamis.”

“No, no, no, not Godzilla exactly, more like something, um, something Godzilla- _ esque.  _ A lot of somethings.” Geiszler took a deep breath, and Hermann heard a shuffling of papers on his end of the phone. He had a sudden image, brief but vivid, of Geiszler standing in front a whole wall of his papers, gesticulating wildly, his eyes blown wide and red. Nothing like in the picture. “So look, look at the last three occurrences of the tsunamis, right? California, uh, Crimean coast, out by Namibia. Do you see a pattern here?”

“Not immediately,” said Hermann. “Should I?”

“Exactly! You don’t see one because there  _ is no pattern, _ it’s not, um, you know, trade winds or, or, or plate tectonics—”

Hermann lit a third cigarette. “Well, as long as we’ve ruled out those incredibly broad categories.”

“You’re not  _ listening,  _ man! We  _ can  _ rule out those things because we can’t predict when or where the next tsunami is going to happen!  _ Therefore—” _

“Therefore.”

“It has to be caused by something that can’t be predicted! Like, saaay, for  _ example,  _ a bunch of Godzillas emerging independently from the ocean to fuck our collective shit up!”

Hermann let this last bit of profanity hang in the air for a moment. It was only fitting, he thought, that the whole thing should end this way. “So,” he said quietly, “you’re telling me, Dr. Geiszler, that these tsunamis are both completely unpredictable  _ and _ caused by creatures whose existence we had no previous knowledge of, but that  _ you  _ are able to piece these inexplicable and/or utterly fantastical phenomena together because you have seen more fictional monster movies than anyone else.” For an improvisation, it was quite decent. Hermann smiled at the long silence on Geiszler’s end.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll admit it sounds stupid when you say it like  _ that,  _ Hermann, but—”

“It sounds stupid said  _ any  _ way, Dr. Geiszler. And don’t call me Hermann.” Another pause, then a click. Hermann would have to be satisfied with getting the last word. “I’m sure you all found that very entertaining,” he said to his listening audience. Hopefully, they were all chuckling good-naturedly at the naive foolishness of Dr. Geiszler and Hermann’s expert takedown of his crackpot theory. “I’m afraid that’s all we have for today,” he continued. “Please tune in at this time tomorrow for more Cancelling the Apocalypse with Herm— with Dr. Gottlieb.” 

“Well, this is great,” said Choi as Hermann exited the studio with cigarette butts stuffed in his pockets. “A whole fifteen minutes of dead air for me to play with. You know you can’t just storm out of the booth, right?”

“That guy really got to you,” grinned Beckett. He was leaning over the soundboard with Choi, probably helping him find something public domain to fill the last quarter-hour with. “Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, storming.”

“I ended the program early,” said Hermann, resisting the urge to whack Beckett in the shins with his cane. “I did not  _ storm.” _

“You did so,” said Choi. “And you forgot the bumper. ‘You’re listening to PPDC88.5, Hong Kong’s number one English-language news radio station.’ Because it’s Hong Kong’s  _ only  _ English-language news radio—” 

“I’d better be going,” said Hermann.

“Yeah, before Pentecost gets back,” said Beckett. “You got any excuses you want us to give him for you?”

“Just tell him I’m sorry,” said Hermann, and left.

…

Herman’s apartment was dark when he got back, which he should’ve expected, since he’d left the lights off, but the sight of it still sent a crushing tiredness through his bones. He felt drained, exhausted, and worse, he knew his hopes wouldn’t have come crashing down so far if he hadn’t allowed them to get this high in the first place. Just because Geiszler had a handful of PhDs didn’t mean that he’d be— whatever Hermann had  _ thought  _ he would be. Something stupid, probably. He snorted when he turned on the lights and remembered that he’d cleaned his apartment this morning, dumped out the ashtrays and stuffed the takeout containers into the garbage. As if he could’ve brought Geiszler home with him. He shut the lights back off.

Hermann pulled the liquor down from the shelf, spread his notes out on the table, and switched on the TV. There was no rush to plan for the next program — it was a whole week away, who knew what would happen between now and then — but right now he wanted a distraction. The news helpfully gave him one: another wave, just an hour ago, crashing down over Sydney. The flickering light from the screen glinted off the bottle as he took a generous sip from it. With the way things were going, there didn’t seem to be much of a point in saving— 

Hermann spit scotch down his shirtfront. Right there, in the corner of the screen, there was something — like an  _ eye.  _ He scrambled forward to get a better look at it, scattering his papers in the process, but the channel went to commercial.  _ “Worried that you’ll become separated from your loved ones when the big wave hits? Try new FarFromFear body identification tags!”  _ Hermann stared blankly as a smiling mother fit a BeachBlue™ identification tag around her son’s neck before computer animated water pulled them apart. Anyone trying to make sense of this — through merchandising, through theorizing — was simply burying their terror of the inevitable. Geiszler and his invisible monsters were no different. Hermann would be a fool to believe him.

He straightened his papers, took another long swig of scotch, and began to prepare for the next week’s show.

… 

Pentecost was waiting for Hermann when he walked into the station, his arms crossed and his face impassive. “You’ve been smoking in the booth,” he said without preamble.

“I have been,” said Hermann. 

Pentecost nodded. “These times make people do strange things, Dr. Gottleib. I’ve been told to stop smoking for my health, and yet I’ve started again.” Hermann took the hint and dug around for his pack. “And you,” continued Pentecost as he accepted a cigarette, “you’ve started smoking in the booth and picking fights on the radio.”

Hermann fumbled with his lighter. “I wouldn’t call it— With all due respect sir, I was correcting misinformation.”

“Loudly.”

Hermann grit his teeth to keep himself from arguing further. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s the thing, Dr. Gottlieb.” Pentecost took a long, thoughtful inhale. “I believe it  _ should  _ happen again.”

“You can’t mean that,” said Hermann, more as a prayer than a rejoinder. “That conversation was a— a complete disaster.”

“Maybe,” said Pentecost in a tone Hermann couldn’t quite read _ .  _ He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Hermann, who recognized it as his list of callers for today’s program — with  _ Newton Geiszler, PhD  _ pencilled in at the bottom. “Dr. Geiszler obviously didn’t think so.”

“Oh.” Hermann’s heart stuttered a little in his chest. Geiszler had called the station, he wanted to talk to Hermann again— wanted to  _ bother  _ Hermann again, he reminded himself. Harass him, really. “Well,” he began, “if you insist—”

“I do,” said Pentecost.

“Right,” said Hermann. He politely yanked the list of callers out of Pentecost’s hand and turned to head into the booth.

“I know you don’t understand why I want you to do this, Dr. Gottlieb,” said Pentecost. Hermann glanced over his shoulder and found himself suddenly taken aback. In moments like these — the ‘I-am-the-Station-Manager-and-there-is-a-very-good-reason-for-that’ moments — Pentecost typically seemed to be about twice his already intimidating height. But now he had shrunk somehow, his shoulders a bit slumped, his back not quite a magnificent example of posture. He was tired, Hermann realized, and looked it. “It’s funny, Hermann,” he said. “That’s all. I think our listeners could use some laughter right now.”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Hermann, “I fail entirely to see any humor whatsoever in this situation.”

“Yes,” said Pentecost. “It adds to the effect.” He made as if to leave, then paused, plucked Hermann’s cigarette from the corner of his mouth, and put it out with a flick of his wrist. “Have a good show,” he said, and left. Hermann didn’t hide his scowl as he shuffled into the booth. However well the show went he was going to have a headache by the end of it, either from withdrawals or Geiszler or both.

Hermann barely had time to test the microphone before he was on air, the beginnings of a craving already snaking their way up the back of his neck. He forced a bit of enthusiasm into his voice for the sake of his fans — the vast majority of them, after all, were not complete lunatics — and the show went as it usually did. “I’d like to welcome Nathan Lambert...Sashsa Kaidonovsky, calling us from St. Petersburg...Miss Mori, back to elaborate on her excellent theory…” Hermann tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the clock. Why had they put Geiszler last in the queue? To torment him? As if the maniac wouldn’t do a fine enough job of that on his own. As if  _ Hermann  _ wouldn’t do a fine enough job of that on his own.

Somehow, though, the last call of the day snuck up on him, and Hermann, lulled into a false sense of complacency by the well-reasoned and rational theories of his other callers, almost fell out of his chair when Geiszler greeted him with a very sarcastic “Nice to talk to you again, Doc.”

“Ahem.” Hermann caught himself quickly, straightened out the wrinkles in his shirt even though nobody could see them, shoved his cigarettes deeper into his pocket and resisted the uncharacteristic urge to scream. “Nice for you, I’m sure,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” said Geiszler. He was chewing gum at a speed the likes of which Hermann had never before heard with his mouth right next to his phone. “It’s an honor just to be nominated. I’m pretty sure the giant monsters causing the tsunamis are actually aliens.”

“Aliens,” said Hermann. “Charming. Do they come in peace?”

“Well, that’s hard to say,” said Geiszler. “I think it all depends on the amount they have of, of what we would consider sentience. Consciousness, conscience, you name it. Are they trying to destroy our cities, or are they just waking up from hypersleep in the middle of the ocean and freaking the fuck out? But you’re distracting me.”

“Am I?” asked Hermann. In spite of himself, he was starting to relax. It seemed as if Geiszler would be perfectly content to talk away the remnants of the hour uninterrupted. Hermann could practically take a nap on the clock.

“You’re supposed to ask me  _ why  _ I think it’s aliens,” said Geiszler, his voice almost a whine. 

Hermann shrugged. “Well?”

“So the crucial question, the question, what we have to ask ourselves is, why now? Why would these things just start appearing out of the thin fuckin’ air? Water. Ha. Um, well, they’re too big to have just, like, been  _ hiding,  _ so we know that—”

“Too big to have been hiding?” said Hermann. “We’ve only explored about ten percent of the ocean, isn’t that right, Dr. Geiszler? I’d hope you, as a biologist, would know that.” He froze. Had Geiszler ever mentioned being a biologist on air? Hopefully he hadn’t noticed— 

Geiszler snorted. “Yeah, uh, and I’d hope you, as a  _ physicist _ , would know that there are limits to just how fucking  _ big  _ things on this earth can  _ be  _ if they want to move around and make tsunamis and shit.”

“So you are claiming,” said Hermann, “that the  _ creatures  _ you are describing are in fact too—  _ fantastical  _ to exist on Earth, but  _ you _ were able to modify your conveniently malleable theory to make them—” He took a long, slow breath. “Aliens.”

“I modified my theory in light of new evidence,” said Geiszler. “That’s how science  _ works,  _ if you’ve forgotten that while dispensing propaganda for the  _ man _ at your government-funded radio station.”

“What new evidence?” said Hermann. “This entire theory is in your head!” He tried to keep a bit of ice in his voice, but it wasn’t really working. Geiszler was by all accounts a smart man. How could he believe the nonsense he was spewing?

“Yeah, well, sorry I didn’t go out and do a peer-reviewed study,” said Geiszler, sounding very sarcastic and yet also like a malfunctioning fire alarm. “I was kind of busy trying not to get killed by aliens. Listen—”

“Oh, convenient!” said Hermann. He realized he was yelling. Hopefully Tendo was adjusting the soundboard accordingly. “The aliens are stopping you from proving that they’re aliens!”

_ “Actually,  _ smart guy, that would make sense, because they don’t want us to  _ know—” _

“Oh yes, which is why they’re being so inconspicuous—”

“ _ —  _ that they’re aliens because then we could fight them—”

“ _ —  _ by creating giant  _ waves  _ you—”

“ _ —  _ and  _ win  _ you—”

“ _ —  _ insufferable little—”

“ _ —  _ fucking piece of—”

“And that’s all the time we have for today, folks!” said Raleigh Beckett, smoothly knocking the microphone away from Hermann’s face. “Tune in the same time next week for more...heated discussion right here on PPDC 88.5, Hong Kong’s #1 English-language news radio station.”

“Thank you,” said Hermann after Beckett had switched off the microphone so that the listeners could enjoy a message from their remaining sponsors. “I’m, ah, I’m not sure what came over me. I forgot myself.”

Beckett gave him an uncomfortably familiar grin. “Don’t worry about it. Tendo says you’re getting great ratings.”

“Wonderful,” said Hermann. He wondered how many people had just listened to him make an ass of himself. “I’m sure I’ve broadened some intellectual horizons today, then.”

Beckett’s mouth stretched impossibly wider. “I’m sure you have, doc.”

… 

After the disaster that had been the show, Hermann decided that he deserved some sort of luxury, and made his way slowly and in anguish to the coffee shop that he had begun to frequent in the past few months. His former favorite coffee shop, with its olive-green armchair that fit him perfectly and its aroma of baked goods so strong it almost settled on the skin like icing, had been abandoned during the wave of panic following the second tsunami. This one was greasy on every surface and frequented by people who picked their teeth with switchblades, but it somehow had plenty of cream and sugar despite recent shortages, and Hermann, contrary to his carefully-maintained reputation, liked lots of both.

The shop also, due to the proclivities of its seedy clientele, allowed smoking. Hermann ordered a large coffee and resolved not to leave until he had irreparably damaged his respiratory system. He found a small table in a corner with someone’s half-read newspaper strewn over it and began to look over the headlines.

Nothing really surprising, today. Fresh disasters, increasingly useless relief efforts, the estimated death toll helpfully printed in the corner continuing to climb. Hermann noticed, between cigarettes, that his coffee had no taste. He considered, for a moment, whether it would be wise to approach the showily-dressed barista at the counter, who took after the type Hermann might describe as ‘stabbing-inclined,’ then decided that death was preferable to bad coffee. “Excuse me,” he said, approaching the man with his palms exposed to indicate that he was unarmed, “may I trouble you for some extra sugar?”

“Doctor Hermann Gottlieb!” crowed the man. “I’d recognize that prissy English accent anywhere!”

“Ah...thank you,” said Hermann.

The man — Hannibal Chau, by his name tag — took a heaping handful of sugar packets and shoved them across the counter. “So how the hell are you? You and that Geiszler guy were really going at it today.”

“I tend to disagree with his methodology,” said Hermann. He selected three sugar packets, then, after some thought, a fourth. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“You better watch out,” said Chau, with a laugh that made Hermann subtly shuffle his feet into a defensive stance. “You might run into him.”

Hermann blinked. “Run into whom?”

Chau laughed again. “Geiszler! He lives around here. Always comes in asking for fucking  _ donuts.”  _ He emphasized ‘donuts’ as if they were some strange and disgusting organ and not a perfectly reasonable thing to expect from a coffee shop. “And he chains his motorcycle to the bike rack.”

Hermann wouldn’t have been able to imagine Geiszler riding a motorcycle or using a bike rack, but the two in combination seemed to make perfect sense. “Does he come here often?”

“He’s behind you,” said Chau, and then slapped the counter in amusement when Hermann whipped his head around. Nobody was there, of course. He felt a sudden wash of emotion that he chose not to examine. 

“Is there a charge for the sugar?” he asked, turning with reluctance back to Chau.

“For you? No,” said Chau. “Unless you try to take advantage of my generosity.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Hermann. He walked slowly back to his table and methodically dumped the sugar into his coffee. He imagined Newton Geiszler, of the formerly undisclosed location, sitting at this very table and putting a similar — if not greater, judging by his love of donuts — amount of sugar into  _ his  _ coffee. It was strange to think of him doing something so normal, something without the specific intent of pestering Hermann. On the other hand, the coffee probably gave him the energy to pester Hermann. No one could possibly say that much that quickly without some kind of stimulant.

Hermann took a sip of his own drink and found that it was not only still tasteless, but now cold as well. He tossed the rest of it back in one pained gulp; licked a few excess granules of sugar off his teeth. Newton Geiszler had a motorcycle, he thought. Not that it would help him when the next wave hit.

…

Hermann was in a terrifically bad mood, and he prayed that no one would speak to him, look at him, or acknowledge his existence as he stomped into the station. The universe did not oblige. “Take a look at this, Dr. Gottlieb,” said Choi, intercepting Hermann before he could reach the sweet solitude of the booth. He held a paper in front of Hermann’s face, close enough that he had to squint to look at it. It appeared to be the day’s schedule, but it was so short as to only contain one name. “The end of last week’s show was a massive success, ratings-wise,” said Choi as the blood drained out of Hermann’s face, “so today the station manager wants you to talk to Dr. Geiszler for the entire time.”

Hermann shoved the paper aside. “Two hundred people died yesterday,” he spat, “and Pentecost wants me to talk to  _ Geiszler?  _ For an  _ hour?” _

Choi shrugged. “Not talking to Geiszler won’t bring them back.”

“Well isn’t that just  _ wonderful,”  _ said Hermann. “Since we can’t reverse death, we might as well walk straight into hell!”

Choi took a step back, then put a hand on Hermann’s shoulder. “Doctor—”

Hermann took a breath. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll do what the station manager says.”

Choi nodded, but didn’t move his hand. “You know, my grandfather died in the second wave.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermann said again.

“I miss him every day,” said Choi. “I can’t believe how much I miss him.” His eyes were damp, and Hermann felt the urge to look away but found he couldn’t. “But—” Choi choked up, sighed, started again. “There’s more to survival than just surviving. You need to try to be happy too.”

“I am happy,” said Hermann quietly. He wasn’t sure why he bothered saying it, since both he and Choi knew it was a lie. “It’s three minutes until we’re on air.”

“Oh, yeah.” Choi clapped Hermann on the shoulder. “Have fun in there.”

“Choi,” said Hermann.

“What?” said Choi. “I can dream.”

Hermann laid out his papers in a sort of numbed haze, dispassionately noting the heaviness in his stomach. This was good, he told himself, this was productive. He wouldn’t yell, he wouldn’t get angry, he’d only sit and let Geiszler talk and talk until the whole thing was over. Then he signed on, and Geiszler greeted him with a kind of angry quack of laughter, and Hermann remembered that this strategy hadn’t worked exceptionally well the last time.

“Listen,” he said, interrupting Geiszler before he could go on another rant, “just tell me, what exactly is it that you want? Besides that we lose our FCC license.”

“What do you mean, what do I  _ want?”  _ said Geiszler. “I want to spread the, the truth! I want to let the people know what’s really going on. You know, I mean people have a right to know what’s going  _ on  _ in the world, man, you think people are tuning in to hear a bunch of theories so that they can like, discuss the apocalypse as a, a fun intellectual exercise? Like, oh boy,  _ I  _ bet it’s because of trade winds, what do  _ you _ think— Oh! He’s dead!” He paused, apparently to breathe. Hermann could hear cars going by behind him, and a hiss that might have been rain. Outside and on speakerphone — Hermann shouldn’t have been surprised. “Also,  _ fuck  _ your FCC license, I mean that’s just part of the problem, a bunch of moral guardians deciding what we can put in our little baby ears and suppressing—”

“You keep saying  _ truth,”  _ said Hermann. “How can you possibly think your ridiculous—  _ fiction  _ is even a reasonable approximation of the truth?”

“Oh, that’s right, you don’t like my theory!” said Geiszler. “How could I forget, you only mention it  _ every single time.  _ I thought you were supposed to be  _ objective.” _

“Your theory is  _ objectively  _ moronic!”

“Okay! Okay, okay, if you think my theory is just the worst thing  _ ever,  _ let’s hear yours then, huh? Let’s hear what the great Doctor Hermann Gottlieb has to say.”

Hermann hissed. “Now you’re just trying to  _ distract—” _

“Come on! What does the  _ magnificent, _ the the the, the  _ preeminent,  _ the gobsmackingly fucking super-genius wonderful amazing—”

“I don’t  _ have  _ a theory!” Hermann yelled. He realized he was standing up, and adjusted the microphone accordingly, his hands shaking. “I don’t have one. All right? Is that what you wanted to hear? I have no idea— I have no idea why any of this is happening. I just want it to stop.”

There was a long silence. Dead air, Hermann thought. Choi would be upset with him.

“Dude,” said Geiszler finally, “are you  _ crying?” _

“No,” said Hermann, although it was obvious from the sound of his voice that yes, he was.

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry,” said Geiszler. “I really do—” He coughed. “I really do think you’re, you know, gobsmackingly amazing. And wonderful. And I like arguing with—”

“I’m not crying because of  _ you,”  _ Hermann sniffed.

“Oh. Well in that case...meet me outside?”

“What?” said Hermann.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I’m parked, I’m parked right outside the station. It’s — I’m not stalking you — it’s near this coffee shop I like.”

“I know,” said Hermann. 

“Cool,” said Geiszler.

Hermann gathered his papers, pushed his chair in. The members of the FCC were probably dead, anyway, or dying, or otherwise occupied with attempting to live. He stepped out of the booth. “Do you mind if I leave?” he asked Choi.

“Are you kidding?” said Choi, who had already cued a very floral-sounding sonata. “This is the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my fucking life.”

“Well. Thank you,” said Hermann.

Hermann stepped out into the rain he had heard on Geiszler’s phone call. He squinted out into it, and there was Geiszler sitting on his motorcycle with a rainbow-striped umbrella. Because of course he’d carry a goddamn umbrella on a motorcycle. He waved. Hermann nodded.

“Are you gonna just stand there drowning?” Geiszler yelled, his free hand cupped around his mouth as though he were calling across some immense distance rather than five feet away. “Hop on!”

Hermann thought he might put up some token protest — motorcycles, danger,  _ Geiszler —  _ but instead he shuffled over to the motorcycle and climbed on the back of it, hooking his cane backwards over his shoulder. There was nothing really to hold onto, so he wrapped his arms around Geiszler, the man surprisingly soft yet firm, and pressed the side of his face against his back, his cheek sliding a bit on the dripping leather of Geiszler’s jacket.

“Oh, hello, yeah,” said Geiszler, stuttering. “Make yourself— make yourself comfortable, okay. Coffee,” he said to himself under his breath, although Hermann still heard it. “Right. We’re getting coffee.”

Without warning, he took off, and although Hermann had expected to be terrified he felt as he had when he’d been a child, riding in the backseat of his parents’ car late Friday nights on the way home from Shabbat services, so tired and calm he might have been drugged, the world sliding by smeared in the dark and the rain, its colors alien and yet more real than they were in the daytime, like colors in dreams. He shut his eyes and then opened them. Who knew how much longer the city would be here. Who knew how much longer  _ he  _ would be here. He might as well get a good look at everything.

… 

Hermann was completely soaked by the time they arrived at the coffee shop, his hair stuck to his forehead and his woolen sweater stinking. Geiszler was in a similar state, the rainbow umbrella having freed itself somewhere along their journey. He ran his hands down his jacket like a pair of squeegees before beckoning Hermann into the shop.

The lighting in the coffee shop was uncomfortably fluorescent, almost medical. Hermann had noticed this before, of course, but he had never  _ felt _ it so strongly as he did now, as it lit up every line on Geiszler’s face, the drops of water clinging to the lenses of his glasses and his eyelashes. They’d sat across from each other, and at a table tucked into the corner of the room. Hermann felt slightly like he was on a very odd date.

“So,” said Geiszler, stirring a finger through his coffee. He took it black, to Hermann’s surprise, and drank it, to Hermann’s disgust, without spitting out his gum. “The world is ending.”

“But you think that we can stop it,” said Hermann. “You said we could win.”

“Yeah, well.” Geiszler tapped the coffee stirrer he wasn’t using against the table. “It’s more of a daydream than a theory, I guess.”

Hermann took a sip of his coffee. He’d added so much sugar, this time, that there was a small sticky lump at the bottom of the cup. “At least you have a dream,” he said. “I feel like I’m just marking time. Waiting for it all to be over. You know, sometimes I wonder, why I don’t just—” He paused, and Geiszler made the appropriate gory motions for him. “How are you so...energetic, still?”

“Ha. Yeah, you could say that.” Geiszler stretched, rolled his shoulders. Hermann really was fascinated by the way he never seemed to stop moving. “We all deal with shit differently, I guess. I’m kind of freaking out, like, all the time. But you know…” He reached across the table, quickly, and took Hermann’s hand, and for a minute Hermann thought he was just going to fidget with that too, and then he realized, and he sank down in his chair a bit, as if it had suddenly grown softer. “Just because, I mean, you know, just because the world is ending, it doesn’t mean that the stuff happening now isn’t still important.” He squeezed Hermann’s hand carefully, shivered, smiled. “Right?”

“Right,” said Hermann. Slowly, he curled his hand up around Geiszler’s. It was a warm hand. Hermann could feel the warmth, very slowly, moving up his arm until it had settled in his chest. They sat there, Hermann wasn’t sure for how long, until Geiszler cleared his throat.

“I was wondering, um, not to take this too fast, but considering, you know, death, we could maybe go back to my place. I mean, I have, like, a bed—”

“That’s an excellent idea,” said Hermann. “Considering death.”

They stood up and cleaned their table off quickly, spilling coffee and sugar and contraband cream. Hermann’s body felt light in a way it hadn’t in months. He slung an arm around Geiszler’s shoulder as they walked out, and Geiszler tripped over his own feet and directly into Raleigh Beckett.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on air?” said Hermann, heaving Geiszler up by the collar of his jacket.

“Aren’t you?” replied Beckett, grinning. “I’m guessing this is the esteemed Dr. Newton Geiszler.”

“Ah, yes,” said Hermann. “It seems we had more in common than we thought.”

“Yeah?” said Beckett. “I’m not surprised.”

Hermann opened his mouth and looked at Geiszler, who had also opened his mouth and was looking at Hermann. Hermann sighed. “I guess not,” he said. “If you’ll excuse us—”

“Hang on,” said Beckett. “Hey, Mako!”

Hermann blinked. “Mako  _ Mori?” _

“Doctor Hermann Gottlieb?” Mako Mori appeared suddenly from behind Beckett, and although Hermann had never before seen her he instantly recognized her voice. “It’s an honor to meet you in person, doctor.” She smiled, and Hermann smiled dazedly back, wondering why it was that everyone in the entire world went to the same bloody coffee shop.

“Mako was just showing me these,” Beckett said, holding up a piece of paper. It was a schematic, a beautiful one, of a massive, humanlike robot laid out in breathtaking detail, peppered with notes and measurements Hermann couldn’t understand.

“Holy  _ shit!”  _ said Geiszler, careening forward to look at the picture. “That’s fantastic! You made that?”

Mori laughed. “You like it, Doctor Geiszler? It’s based on your theory.”

“This is what you think the monsters look like?” Geiszler asked. “The monsters making the tsunamis?”

“No,” said Mori, looking not at Geiszler but straight at Hermann. “They’re what we can use to fight the monsters.”

….

“So you totally knew I’m a biologist.”

“I’m sure you mentioned it.” Hermann leaned back from the microphone just enough so that it wouldn’t catch the furious sounds of his chewing. He’d quit smoking about two weeks ago, and currently the gum habit he’d picked up from Newton was the only thing making the cravings even slightly bearable.

Well, Newton himself was also helping quite a bit. He smiled up at Hermann — he’d  _ insisted  _ on resting his head on Hermann’s lap during the whole show even though it meant Hermann had to keep adjusting the microphone to catch both of their voices — and for a moment every unpleasant wiggling  _ thing  _ in Hermann’s head was gone.

“You stalked me,” said Newton. He poked a finger into Hermann’s ribs. “Admit it.”

“Research,” said Hermann, chewing louder. “I research all of my guests. And  _ you  _ knew I’m a physicist.”

“Yeah, well,  _ I  _ stalked you. There, does that sound so bad?”

“Actually—”

“I was wondering,” said the reporter’s voice carefully, “if you could tell us more about the jaeger program.”

“Ah yes,” said Hermann. “Certainly.” He’d never had a reporter call in to the show before. Pentecost, when he’d informed him, had seemed almost proud. “Well, it’s—”

“Awesome,” said Newton. “Like in the Biblical sense, like awe-inspiring. Those things are fuckin’ huge.”

“And Dr. Geiszler, how did it feel to know that you were right about the tsunamis being caused by aliens?”

“Terrible. I was scared shitless the first time I saw one.” He’d only seen it on TV, but of course Newton would never admit that. They’d been in bed, Hermann still catching his breath, just beginning to wonder what exactly he was doing in this man’s home, and Newton had turned on the news and they had both seen it at the same time, not just an eye but arms and legs and all sorts of horrific appendages. “Well,” Hermann had said, “I suppose I shouldn’t leave yet.”

Now he looked down his nose at Newton. “Yes, and once you had recovered, you were insufferable.”

“Hey, what can I say? It’s not every day I prove you wrong.”

“It isn’t, is it?” He ran a hand through Newton’s hair. “Although that doesn’t stop you from trying.”

“If we could keep talking about the jaeger program,” said the reporter.

But neither Newton nor Hermann was listening. Newton lifted himself from Hermann’s lap slowly, and Hermann pulled him the rest of the way up into a kiss. Yesterday they had been in Hermann’s kitchen, brewing the first decent cup of coffee Hermann had drunk in ages, and Newton had mentioned something about the future. About their future. “Yes,” Hermann had said, “that would be lovely,” and although he couldn’t remember anymore what he had been responding too, maybe just something about dinner reservations, he could still feel the floating sensation that the future was  _ real,  _ that it would  _ happen,  _ for him and Newton both, together.

Newton sighed against Hermann’s lips, and the reporter coughed. Hermann broke away from Newton and said, as professionally as possible, “Dr. Geiszler, if I could have my gum back—”

“Come over here and get it,” said Newton, scooting back in his chair.

There was a click on the reporter’s end of the line, and Hermann, realizing that they were probably not going to field anymore questions today, began frantically to shuffle through his itinerary. “Newton,” he said, “you are  _ infuriating.” _

Newton laughed. “You know you love me.”

“Yes,” said Hermann. “Yes, I suppose I do.” 

Newton made a kind of squeaking noise, and Hermann wanted to say more, but he stopped himself, as approximately the entire population of Hong Kong was listening to them. He put a hand on Newton’s knee and made a little shushing signal, and Newton giggled but seemed to understand. They would talk later. They’d have time. 


End file.
